


i would long for you through worlds

by theappleppielifestyle



Series: Through Worlds [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multiverse, mentions of civil war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You- the both of you had to see this. This world, your world, it’s destined for- well. Can’t tell you, that’d be spoiling it. But in every universe where it nearly happens but doesn’t, there’s always one common denominator, and that’s you guys.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, Steve and Tony get a glimpse of the multiverse to prevent the Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i would long for you through worlds

When Tony opens his eyes, he can’t differentiate it from the inorexable black when he closes them. He blinks, then does it again, harder.

“Hello,” he calls, and it doesn’t bounce off any walls, just keeps going. He’s lying with his back against something cold- wood, it feels like, but he can’t tell, even with his face inches from it. He pushes himself up, and it pulls at one of the injuries at his side, still tender with stitches from yesterday’s battle.

There’s a slow shift beside him, and Tony tries to jerk to his feet before the nausea crashes over him and his knees hit the floor again. He doubles over, gagging, hands going over the floor for a hold, for a weapon-

“Who’s there,” Steve says, or someone says with Steve’s voice, and Tony’s breath rushes from him.

“It’s just me,” he says, half-sighing it. “Where the hell are we?”

Another shift, probably Steve sitting up. He sounds pretty close, maybe half a meter or so away from where he’s kneeling. “I don’t know. What’s the last thing-”

“I remember,” Tony finishes. “Well, I remember that freaky Asgardian lady getting the drop on us and saying some shit about opening our eyes. Which I guess is irony, because neither of us can _see_ anything. Or I’m blind. Am I blind?”

Tony waves both hands in front of his face, and they connect with something soft, presumably Steve’s face, due to him saying, “Ow,” sounding closer than he was a minute ago. Then: “No, you’re not blind, I can’t see anything, either. And stop whacking me in the face,” he finishes, and Tony can just imagine the irritated glare he’s on the receiving end of.

“Sorry,” Tony says. He drops both his hands, moves forwards until he hits something Steve-like and then rocks backwards so he’s sitting with their backs pressing together. They do this sometimes, soldiers-in-arms style, when their PTSD starts acting up more than usual. “So, any guesses on where we are?”

“Somewhere dark.”

“Thanks, genius. Oh, wait, that’d be me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. It lands on Tony’s cheek. “And you never let me forget it.”

“Hey, I have six doctorates.”

“Last time I checked it was four.”

“I got two more.”

“Yeah? What in?”

“In Shut-Your-Face-Rogers,” Tony says lamely, and god, this is just them all over, isn’t it? Sitting with their backs together like they’re in a battle, getting their breath back and snarking at each other in the darkness that is so thick they can literally not see their hands in front of their noses.

They check for their phones, which are gone. Check for weapons, which are gone. After a while, they both get up, holding onto each other’s wrists, and start walking in search of a wall. Twenty increasingly tense minutes pass of walking straight in one direction and they don’t hit one, which is less than comforting.

“This,” Tony says, “Is the least exciting kidnap I’ve ever had the misfortune of being in. We’re probably in some pocket dimension. We’ll be wandering forever in eternal darkness. Fuck, I hate magic.”

“I know you do,” Steve says; a warm, steady weight of five fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Just like everyone in the Tower, everyone at SHIELD, and everyone in the entire world knows you hate magic, because you loudly and proudly declare your hatred for it every time something like this happens.”

“Which is often.”

“I know.”

“And it only makes me hate it more.”

“I know.”

“Good. Just checking. That you know, I mean.” Another fruitless few minutes of walking, and what Tony wouldn’t give for the arc reactor right now, _god_. He might have hated the thing when he had it, but it was good for another thing than keeping the shrapnel out of the chest, and that was being used as a no-hands torch if he ever needed one.

“Seriously. Least exciting kidnap ever. I am so, _so_ bored.”

Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat from in front of him. “Would you rather be fighting the Asgardian lady?”

“If the only other option is walking around here until we inevitably die, then fuck, yes.”

“Fair enough, and seconded.”

Another half an hour of walking until Tony is debating just calling it quits for the time being, when there’s a crackle, like a match being struck, and the Asgardian lady- Tony assumes it’s her, it sure as hell sounds like what she sounded like just before hitting them both over the head- says, “Shit, _fuck_ , this was supposed to be the right place.”

Tony says, “I hope so, kindly kill us or let us out,” and feels Steve’s hand slap briefly against his shoulder; a silent ‘ _don’t get us deeper in shit than we already are, douchebag_.’

A rasp of fabrics shifting, and the woman’s voice coasts in their direction the next time she speaks. “Oh, good, you guys are where I put you.”

“We’d greatly appreciate it if you’d undo it,” Tony grits. His hands flex on empty air, going over the sparring training in his head. They never made him practice in the dark. When he gets back, he’s going to rectify that. Can’t be too careful.

“Shit,” the voice repeats. “Right, okay, I’ll get on that, but I need to show you both something first.”

Steve says, in his favourite Captain tone, “Can’t you show us when we’re topside? And who are you, anyway?”

“I’m Ve- just, just call me Verda, okay, Cap,” she says. Then she sighs like she’s biting her lips as she does it. It’s long and muffled. “ _Look_ , just trust me on this, you assholes, it’s a lot more complicated than what you- I’m cleaning up your mess, got it? Well, not _you_ you, but other you-s.”

“Alternate versions of us,” Tony supplies, having been through this before and having the nightmares to show for it. “Greeeeat. What’d other-us do this time?”

Another sigh. Tony imagines her hands flopping around as she says, “Oh, the usual. Breaking integral parts of the universal thread. You two, god, I don’t know what it is about you, you’ve never managed to just be _ordinary_. It’s always- it’s always- fuck, you are so much more trouble than you’re worth, you know that? Stand back.”

Steve’s hand tightens on Tony’s wrist. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to show you something, keep with the program,” Verda says, hurried. She pauses. “This would be less painful if you both lay down.”

Even though it’s useless, Tony glances at Steve, and for some reason he thinks Steve is looking back. They let go of each other, still brushing bodies as they lie down. Eyes open or closed, it’s the same view.

“Okay,” Verda says again. “Okay, okay. Right. Okay.” A rustle, like she’s unrolling something, or pulling her sleeves up, or both, or neither. She says it through her teeth: “You guys are awful, worst job I’ve had by _far_. Fucking Avengers. Fuck, fuck, shit fucking fuck.”

“You swear a lot for an Asgardian,” Tony remarks from the floor.

“Go fuck yourself, Stark,” she replies. Another rustle, and the murmuring clack of her shoes on the floor, and Tony looks even though there’s nothing to see.

“It’ll seem longer than it is,” she says, and it’s surprisingly soft. “You- the both of you had to see this. This world, your world, it’s destined for- well. Can’t tell you, that’d be spoiling it. But in every universe where it nearly happens but doesn’t, there’s always one common denominator, and that’s you guys.” She laughs, an inside cosmic joke. “You _morons_. Never get it past your thick skulls, even when the other one is cold on a slab. You never-” she stops, inhales hard.

Tony supposes this all makes sense to her. He’s encountered this a lot; listened to impossibly powerful beings rattle on about things that are yet to pass like they’ve seen it all unfold already. He’s seen it, lived it, even. But this woman, she doesn’t sound old, like the others he’s heard. She doesn’t sound godly. She just sounds tired.

“I didn’t use to care,” she says finally. “Or I convinced myself I didn’t, at least. But you- you Avengers. God. You guys always manage to hit me where no-one else does. And then you two, you get right in there and twist the fucking knife. Every single time, doesn’t matter what universe, I want to get down there and yell at you until you understand, until you fucking _get it_ ,” she says, and half-snarls it before cutting herself off, sighing long and loud, one last time.

“God,” she says. Laughs. Laughs like she’s doing it through her fingers. “ _Mortals_. You have no idea. None.”

Tony says, “Are you going to mind-whammy us already, or are you going to stand there and wax vague poetry at us? Because seriously, we have no clue what you’re talking about.”

There’s a silence, before Verda repeats, “None,” softer and quieter and sounding at last like the god she is. Then: “I really shouldn’t be doing this. Fuck.”

For a moment, there’s a blaze of light, so bright it makes Tony’s eyes water, and he catches a glimpse of Verda, or whatever her name is: blonde with hair in a long, elaborate braid down to her waist, her lips pressed together hard, looking down at them.

Tony hears her say something, thinks it might be _sorry_ , but he’s gone before the word registers.

 

 

 

Silence, and then not. Darkness, and then flashes. Of what, he’s not sure- camera flashes, bursts of gunfire, solar flares.

There’s light, and then there’s not, and there’s Tony in a multitude of bodies and then no bodies at all, and nothing and nobody and everyone and everything and he can still feel Steve pressing up against him, arm against arm, leg against leg, waists, pinkies, all in the dark except not.

The sweet punch of chloroform in a rag over his nose. The not-so-sweet punch of knuckles connecting with his cheek in a bar brawl. Bucky falling from a train, forgetting that Tony never watched Bucky fall from a train, even though there’s snow whipping past his face, stinging, and Bucky’s mouth opens in a scream.

Tony opens his eyes, and keeps opening them. The world is a series of eyes snapping open, mid-nightmare, gasping awake, swamped in the sheets. He’s in a hallway. He’s white-knuckling a folder, and the contents make his stomach roll. He’s elbowing through a muddy trench. He’s spitting dirt. He’s in freefall, clipping the air with clumsy metallic limbs. He’s knocking on a door, hammering at it and yelling for someone named Peter Parker. He’s sprinting with lights at his heels, knowing that if they catch him, it’s over, but he doesn’t know what ‘it’ is, and then he does, and then it’s gone.

He opens his eyes, and there isn’t any darkness. He opens his eyes, and it’s not light, exactly, but not anything else.

He opens his eyes-

 

 

 

 

There’s a monster, because there’s always a monster, isn’t there, and Tony doesn’t even watch it hit the ground, down and out, before he’s moving for Sarah.

By the time he reaches her she already babbling apologies, and Tony brushes them off and instead grabs her face in his hands. He twists it left and right, searching for bruises or cuts or burns or whatever she could have gotten, and her jaw moves under his hands. “Dad. _Dad_ , quit it, I’m totally fine-”

She tries to bat him away, but Tony just pulls her closer, circling both arms around her and burying his head in her hair, squeezing his eyes shut and letting himself have this, this one stolen second before shit hits the fan. He feels her and how she doesn’t even hesitate, just hugs him back even harder.

“I’m fine,” she says into his shoulder, muffled, and it’s then that Tony realizes he’s been talking all this time.

He draws back. “You’re not fine, you-” he presses a kiss to her hairline, talking all the while, “made a sentient _killer robot_ -”

“By _accident_ -”

“An accidental killer robot is still a killer robot,” Tony says, louder than necessary, his heart practically beating the samba, Jesus Christ, he had nearly had a fucking heart attack when the call had come in. Yes, sorry, gentlemen, I have to exit this meeting due to my daughter fighting a giant killer robot with a secret version of the suit that I was not aware she had.

She squirms, her face still framed by his hands. “Yeah, but-”

“But nothing,” Tony says over her, nearly shouting now. He tilts her face so she is forced to look at him. “But _nothing_ , Sarah Jamie Stark-Rogers, but absolutely _nothing_ , nada, zilch. I _told_ you not to mess with that technology, I told you it was dangerous, you are strictly forbidden to mess with magic-laced technology, you _know_ that. And I told you, along with the law, that you are not allowed to become a superhero until you are at least twenty three! At _least_ twenty three, you are _sixteen_ -”

“I’m old enough-”

“You are by no means old enough, what the hell were you thinking, you could have gotten seriously hurt, you could have gotten _killed_ -”

“But I didn’t, I’m fine! Dad,” she says, shaken and desperate and _alive_ , fuck, “I’m totally one hundred percent okay, I’m not even bruised or anything, I was _awesome_ , you worry too much-”

“I worry just enough, I watched my daughter almost get swatted out of the sky by a robot the size of a skyscraper, I’d say that warrants me to worry a little bit more than the average father,” Tony says, and his voice keeps rising, his fingers keep stroking lines into her cheeks like if he stops she’ll suddenly be lying on the ground with her limbs at odd angles after all. His eyes rake over her again, sees everything in its place, and he suddenly forgets to be mad. He swears into her hair, pulls her close and just _breathes_ , breathes the wonderful soot and the underbite of her cherry shampoo that she always makes them get, even though it makes her hair oily if she uses too much. But she doesn’t mind, because the smell makes up for it, she says, she has said so many times before, and Tony always catches a whiff of it when he kisses her cheek before she leaves for school, and he nearly lost that in one downcut of a metal hand coming down.

It had been so close, less than an inch away from her as she narrowly escaped out from under it, suit glinting glossy red and gold in the afternoon sun. Tony’s breath had gotten stuck in his throat watching her weave through the tops of the buildings, whooping and curving in fast circles.

He barely even blinks, soaking in the sight of his daughter, with his almond eyes and Steve’s hair down to her shoulders. “You,” he says. Stops, has to swallow. “Are grounded.”

She actually has the audacity to groan. “Fuuuuuuck. _Fine_. For how long?”

“Until you grow old and die.”

“Dad.”

God, she looks so much like Steve when she gives him that look. “Until you grow old and die,” he repeats, sternly, in his best I’m-Your-Father-Hence-I-Know-Better tone. “Odes will be written about you. People will come for miles around to see the grounded daughter, grounded for the rest of her natural born life, we could start a tourist attraction-”

“Dad,” she says, and this time she’s almost laughing, giggly with it. Colour is high in her cheeks, she’s still panting slightly, and Tony remembers his first flight in the suit all those years ago, still remember his first battle, how the adrenaline rush took nearly an hour to fade. She’s flushed and gorgeous and streaked with grit, and Tony has never been more relieved in his life. “I’m pretty sure Pops will lower my life sentence.”

“He’ll extend it,” Tony argues. “You know Steve, he’ll find some way to bring you back just so he can lock you in your room and throw away the key.”

“Preeeeetty sure you’ll both be dead by then.”

“Blasphemy,” Tony says, weak at the knees and throat and everything, close to falling over, feeling like that one time he caught Sarah at three years old, at the top of a ladder in Walmart, only about a billion times worse. He kisses her hair again, buries his nose in the scent of fake cherry. “So grounded.” He peppers her hair with kisses until she’s full-out laughing, shaking with it. “So, so grounded. Grounded times infinity. God, I am so mad at you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says into his neck. “Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Yeah, nice job.”

“Okay, so I’m shit at it.” She tenses in his arms, and Tony draws back just in time to see Steve marching up with a thunderous expression.

Again, she starts to babble, apologizing wildly, and when Steve snaps, “What on _earth_ do you think you were _doing_ ,” she winces inward.

“Cleaning up my mess? I sort of, maybe, kind of unleashed a killer robot by mistake-”

“So you call us,” Steve cuts her off. “ _You call us_ , you don’t go gallivanting off in a suit that you haven’t even tested, when you haven’t even had proper combat training-”

“You could fix that!”

“You are _sixteen_ ,” Steve grates, in that same despairing tone that Tony had on less than a minute ago.

“Oh my god, like you can talk, you signed up for the army-”

“This isn’t about me,” Steve snaps, and neither of them are backing down, both equally headstrong and stubborn that they all know she inherited from both of them, she never even had a chance. Then he inhales, like he’s reigning himself in. “Are you okay?”

She says, “I’m fine,” with an eyeroll, and Tony says, “I’ve scanned her, she’s fine,” in unison.

Steve says, “Thank god,” and steps forwards to envelope her in his huge arms that are thicker than her neck. They sway there, her face pressing awkwardly into his shoulder, and Steve leans back after a while to press one precise kiss in the centre of her forehead. “Thank god,” he repeats, mostly to himself, and Tony rubs a hand over his shoulder. Steve leans into it gratefully.

“I’ve already discussed the terms of her grounding.”

Steve looks at him. “Oh?”

“It’s lifelong.”

Steve’s mouth quirks up reluctantly. “As much as I’d like to wrap her in bubblewrap for the rest of her life, I think we could shave that down to four months.”

“Four _months_ -”

“Careful,” Tony warns. “It’s either four months or forever. Choose wisely.”

“Four months,” Sarah sighs, and then she grins. “But you guys are totally proud, right? I mean, I practically took that thing out all by myself.”

She’s vibrating with it; the thrill of a successful battle that Tony has felt a dozen times over and then some, and it never gets any less exciting.

“Not so much proud as _unbelievably_ cross,” Steve says, and then, seeing her wilt slightly, leans forwards to wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Sarah, you know we’d be proud no matter what you did. We just-”

“We would have preferred you to have a career with a better life expectancy,” Tony supplies. “But of course we’re proud of you, sweetheart. We’ll support you no matter what.”

Sarah absorbs this, nods, and, still with that uncontrollable, heartbreakingly young grin: “Can I fly home?”

Tony and Steve share a glance.

“Sure,” Tony says after a second. “You can fly home.”

Her laughter now is nearing delirious, and she hugs the both of them, Steve first, then Tony, then both of them at once, morphing into one big family hug that lifts Sarah off her feet, even in the armour.

As she’s streaking skywards, Tony sighs and leans his head into Steve’s shoulder. “This was not in the parenting brochure.”

He feels Steve’s head turn, tucking his chin over Tony’s head. “You got a brochure?”

Tony huffs a laugh, and-

 

 

A dedication, printed in tiny blocked letters in the middle of the page of his new book:

_To Steve Rogers, the man who proved I have a heart._

Steve thumbs over the words, smiling, the usual warmth filling his chest. He closes the book carefully, and goes to find Tony.

 

 

There’s a knock on the window, and they both freeze.

Their gazes meet, both communicating the same crazy _maybe if we stay still for long enough they won’t notice we’re here,_ but the torch follows soon after the knocking, illuminating the splayed-out sight of them.

“Shit,” Tony says, pushing himself up. He’s sitting in Steve’s lap, their erections awkwardly pressing together as they both rush to make themselves semi-decent, fingers zipping up and buttoning.

Steve’s elbow connects with Tony’s shin as they all but fall out of the car, and Tony says, “Ow,” and Steve says, “Sorry,” sounding like he’d be happy to die on the spot.

Tony sneaks a glance, and forces himself not to laugh fondly at the blush that has now spread across Steve’s entire body. The boy blushes _everywhere_ , and as much as Tony loves it, it looks uncomfortable for him right now.

The cop is surveying the both of them, and it’s the one with the eyepatch that everyone says is a pirate on the side. Or killed his wife. Or something. Tony straightens up, looking the cop right in the eye and giving him his best shit-eating grin. “What seems to be the problem, Nick?”

Nick- Fury, whatever- arches an eyebrow, and Tony is surprised it doesn’t pull at the eyepatch. “Stark. I see you’ve found yourself a new boytoy.”

“Boy _friend_ ,” Tony corrects. “We go on dates and hold hands and everything. Shouldn’t you be doing something better with your valuable police time, like, say, not interrupting us when I’m finally getting into his pants after months of celibacy?”

Steve not-so-discreetly stomps on his foot.

Fury continues to stare, unimpressed. “I was under the impression that your daddy had a perfectly good mansion to fool around in, Stark, why do you insist on getting your freak on in a car at the side of the road?”

Tony opens his mouth to explain, in detail, how he had been innocently mouthing his way up Steve’s neck when Steve had said, “Oh, to hell with it,” jerked the steering wheel sideways, parked badly and all but dragged Tony into the backseat. Tony’s very proud.

Of course, Steve ruins his fun by stepping on his foot again, repeatedly, and Tony shoves him with his shoulder, all the while not breaking eye contact. Or, well, breaking eye contact with his one eye. “We got distracted, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Fury says. “Like all those other times you promised me certain things wouldn’t happen again.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“The explosion at your school last month.”

Tony waves a hand. “The fire got put out, my dad paid for a new wing, it’s all been smoothed over.”

“The explosion at your school last _week_.”

“Hey, no-one can prove that was me, you and I both know Banner confessed-”

“He did,” Fury nods. “He’s also in your circle, so he might have been taking the fall for you. We have a witness putting him on the other side of the campus at the time of the explosion, and you running out cackling from the explosion site seconds after. _Cackling_ , Stark.”

“All been smoothed over,” Tony repeats, mumbling, and coughs into his fist. “So, we promise to go to a more secluded area the next time we fool around, can you leave now so we can get back to what we were doing? At a house, we’ll go to a house,” he adds, when Fury’s one eye narrows.

A few seconds pass, and Fury inclines his head at Steve. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, kid.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll take the risk, Sir,” Steve croaks, surprising all three of them.

Then he looks at Tony, and Tony’s heart thuds almost painfully, and-

 

 

 

The words resonate, solidifying like ash in his mouth: _it wasn’t worth it._

They spill over, hitting hard and hitting badly, tumbling and slipping and skidding and falling all over themselves, and it doesn’t matter now. The words fall on deaf ears.

But he says them, and that’s what counts. Right?

“It wasn’t,” Tony says, useless useless useless. A stupid prayer for a dead god. “It wasn’t worth it, I swear to god, Steve, it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t-”

 

 

 

Steph doesn’t realize she’s jiggling her leg until Bucky snaps, “Jesus Christ, woman, I can’t study when you rattle the table like that!”

“Sorry,” Steph says on autopilot, and Bucky follows her gaze.

When he realizes what she’s looking at, she snorts. “Seriously?”

Steph is yanked back into reality. “Hmm?”

Bucky is smirking. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the woman who Steph has been shamelessly staring at for the past hour or so. “I thought you said you liked this place because it’s so _quiet_.”

“It _is_ quiet.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t go half an hour out your usual route to get some quiet.” Bucky grins, pen between his teeth before spitting it out into his hand. “Have you talked to her?”

Steph considers telling him that she doesn’t know who he means, but instead she caves. “No.”

“I thought so.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I just mean that you’re really, tragically, pitifully bad at this, Steph.”

“Thanks,” Steph repeats, actually a little hurt now. She knows it as well as he does, but she doesn’t want him to just blurt it out at her.

Bucky winces. “I didn’t mean it like that, I- you should go talk to her, was my point.”

Steph rolls her eyes towards him. “Yeah, that’d go well.” She puts on a chirpy, high voice: “Hi, I’m Steph, I’m a broke art major who will probably stay broke until she dies in poverty surrounded by cats.”

“You’re not that bad.”

“I am that bad, Buck, and you _know_ I’m that bad.” Steph tucks her hair behind her ear, then does it again for good measure. “I’m not going to embarrass myself for no good reason.”

She goes back to her papers- god, what had she even been pretending to study- and looks up after a suspicious amount of silence. Bucky is looking thoughtfully over in the woman’s direction.

“No,” Steph says immediately. “No, oh god, please don’t, she’ll fall in love with you and I honestly cannot handle that, I mean I promise I’ll be happy for you but I’ll probably end up strangling someone if I have to watch the two of you be all lovey-dovey-”

“I’m not going to do anything, sheesh,” Bucky says, turning back. “What’s so intriguing about her in the first place?”

Steph mouth opens automatically, sucks in a breath, and then stays there, half-open. Her gaze stretches over to the woman, who is huddled over her table, papers strewn in all directions, cluttered with some sort of maths. There’s ink smudged across her face from where she scrubbed her hand over her cheek; her black hair is an oily mess which is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing sweatpants and a ragged tank top, with small, pert breasts straining at it. Her hands- her hands, stained and scarred, Steph has drawn over and over; tiny things with long fingers and delicate wrists, in contrast to Steph’s large, coarse hands.

And her eyes- oh.

Her eyes had made Steph walk into a stack of books the first time she had seen them. She has never been able to find the right colour, no matter how much she mixes or asks around or scours the internet. Her eyes make her want to be a writer, to be a singer, to express the molten colour in every single damn way she possibly can instead of being an artist, because drawing or sketching or painting never does her eyes justice.

“Wo-o-ow,” Bucky says, eyebrows raised. “Shit, Steph. If you don’t talk to her, I’m going to start throwing things at her head until she notices you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Steph says, but apparently Bucky has been created by an opposing force to make her life hell and embarrass her in public, because he’s already pulling his arm back, a scrap of balled paper in his hands.

Steph may or may not yell, “NO,” as Bucky lets it go, and they both watch as it sails through the air, hits the table and bounces a few times, rolling to a stop in front of the woman’s right hand, which is scribbling furiously.

Steph watches in horror as the hand stops, and the woman pauses to look at the paper ball that has just been thrown at her. She looks up, and Steph points at Bucky, who points at her.

“She stares at you a lot,” Bucky calls across the library, which earns him half a dozen old women shushing him.

Steph kicks him under the table, but he hardly flinches, too used to this treatment after years of being kicked by Steph after he embarrasses her.

“I hate you,” Steph hisses out of the corner of her mouth.

“You’ll thank me later,” Bucky replies. “Look, she’s coming over.”

And she is indeed. She unfolds the paper as she does, smoothing it out as best she can, and Steph watches her expressions shift until she’s smiling funnily, like she’s not used to the stretch of her mouth.

When the woman gets to their table, she stares for a while down at the paper before flipping it around. “Who’s the artist?”

“Her,” Bucky says, earning him another kick.

Steph swallows a groan. Oh, god. It’s the drawing from a few days ago; the sketch of the woman in mid-motion, pushing her hair back into place. On the paper, her muscles are fluid, her hair is the same nearly-gritty quality it had been on the day.

“I, that’s,” Steph says. Clears her throat. Wishes for a sudden wormhole. “That’s mine.”

“And it’s _me_ ,” the woman says, “so I think I’m entitled to keep it.”

“Okay,” Steph shrills, already starting to pack up her things and coming to terms to the fact that she’s never going to be able to come back here, when a hand on her hand stops her. Tiny, beautiful fingers on her big, clumsy ones.

Steph looks up at the eyes she couldn’t describe if she was a poet, colours she can never replicate as a painter. Everything fails her: this is like her legs being taken out from under her, her lungs plucked from her chest.

“I’m Tony,” the woman says. She smiles, and it’s the best punch in the face Steph has ever received.

 

 

 

Lights fall through them, into them, passing through entirely until they make it out the other side. They’re choking. They’re twisting. Falling, through air or into the carpet or through a window, the crunch of glass sparking pain when they hit the floor.

Hands pulling them up. Not each other’s hands, but someone else, someone loved, someone familiar, Natasha-Thor-Clint-Rhodey-Pepper-Bucky-Bruce-Happy’s voices blurring together, low in their ear, saying that they have to go, they have to get out, and the flames lick higher. When did the Tower get set on fire?

The smoke wraps around their chest and squeezes, and this hasn’t happened, this doesn’t happen, and the walls explode inwards, and they bend in half, gagging.

Hands at their shoulders, under their armpits, pulling.

They pull. Tony pulls. Steve pulls. They are pulled out, and the flames creep under the floorboards until the entire thing collapses on top of them.

 

 

Someone tells them _sorry_. Tony falls.

 

 

A spider continues its trek along the windowsill, and Tony watches, his fingertips following it. This is, without a doubt, the most bored he’s ever been. This is the most bored any twelve year old has ever been, ever, in the history of the world. No boredom could ever hold a candle to how fucking bored he is right now.

He’s about ready to set his the curtains on fire, or possibly his eyebrows, to give him something to do, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he yells, rolling over, the spider long forgotten and possibly squished on Tony’s elbow as he had turned.

The door opens, and a small blonde head pokes in, followed by the rest of him, equally small. No matter what Steve says, even though he’s one year younger than him, Tony is sure he’s going to stay bigger than Steve forever.

Tony grins, walking over to where Steve is setting down a tray. “Got the good coffee this time?”

Steve makes a face that until Tony saw it on him, he thought only adults could do. “You’re not allowed coffee, Prince Anthony, you’re _twelve_.”

“Thank you, _Servant Steven_ , I could say the same to you,” Tony says mockingly, like he does every time Steve uses his full title. He only ever gets Steve to call him Tony when he’s really, really mad, which is surprisingly often, so Tony sees how many times he can get Steve to crack in a week. So far, he’s up to a record of thirteen, but this week is looking promising.

He pops a date into his mouth, picks another one up and offers it to Steve. “Want one?”

“I’m not allowed,” Steve says for what has got to be the zillionth time, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I _know_ you’re not allowed, you only point that out every time I try and get you to do something fun.” Tony waves the date tauntingly under his nose. “Want one?”

“No,” Steve replies instantly, but stares at the date for a few seconds before, lighting-fast, grabbing it and pushing it into his mouth, chewing fast and swallowing like they’re going to get caught any second.

Tony laughs. “Don’t get so anxious. You’ve been sharing my meals since we were seven.”

“Yes, and I _shouldn’t_ ,” Steve says, frowning at him. “You’re not even supposed to be talking to me.”

Tony shrugs, rolling over on the bed so he’s upside-down and looking up at Steve. “What can I say? I’m a born rebel.”

“O- _kay_ ,” Steve sighs. “Do you want me to leave the tray here?”

“Yes,” Tony says. “And I want you to eat it with me, _Servant Steve_.”

Steve falters like he always does, but then he’s cautiously sitting on the end of the bed with him. Tony grins again, and Steve opens his mouth obediently when Tony starts feeding him torn-off pieces of cheese. Tony always makes a point to feed him as much as he can, god knows what they’re feeding him down in servant’s quarters since Steve is so skinny.

“How are things?”

“They’re fine.”

“That’s your answer to _eeeeverything_ ,” Tony whines, flopping sideways. “I’m the prince, you’re not supposed to lie to me.”

“I’m not supposed to eat with you,” Steve says, and starts ticking them off on his fingers, still chewing cheese, “or talk directly to you, or make eye contact with you, or address you by your first name-”

“Which you barely ever do, come o- hey, what’s that?”

Steve stiffens as he says, “What’s what,” which tells Tony he knows exactly what he’s talking about.

Tony sits up. “That bruise.”

“What bruise?”

“Don’t play stupid, I saw it when you moved over, you have a bruise-” Tony reaches, and Steve bats him out of the way, and Tony has a second to be surprised before he reaches again. There’s a half-hearted wrestling match before Tony hauls the side of his shirt up, and the bruise is even worse the second time around.

“It’s nothing,” Steve says.

“Bullshit it is,” Tony says, a hot, ugly flare of anger uncurling in his stomach. “Was it that cook dick again? I’ll get him fired, that asshole, beating on the kitchen boys-”

“It’s nothing, Tony, calm down,” Steve says, pulling away from him enough that he’s able to pull his shirt back to its proper position. “I- I was mouthing off to some boys in the courtyard.”

“Because you do that so often, just mouthing off to everyone,” Tony says. “Who’d you stick up for this time? Were they badmouthing Natasha again?”

A pause. “No, it was, uh. You.”

It’s not until Steve leaves minutes later that Tony realizes he had said Tony’s name for the first time without yelling it. He still counts it on the tally.

 

 

Lights.

Then-

 

 

Tony finds a pair of shoes with the feet still in them, bloody. He dry-heaves until finally something comes out, mostly liquid.

“Come on,” Rhodey tells him. Quiet, but firm. “Gotta keep moving.”

“Yeah,” Tony croaks. Wipes his mouth. Waves a hand. “Yeah, sorry, give me a second.”

 

 

 

Lights. Lights in all their forms, blazing or dull or neither, all of them fading or increasing to even out into arc-reactor blue, and then blasting outwards.

 

 

 

 _You had to see this,_ Verda says, and the words mesh until it’s a slur of mumbled letters. _Ouhadtseis. Msor. Yhdtseehis. Orry._

By the time it separates again, they hardly recognize it as words.

_You had to see this. I’m sorry._

 

 

 

When Tony comes running up to Steve, armour-less, Steve has half a mind to twist so his elbow comes out and catches Tony along the face. He thinks that Tony is going to give him one last piece of his mind. He thinks Tony is going to sock him one.

That doesn’t happen, though. What does happen is Tony shoves in front of him just as two shots ring out, and Tony’s eyes, which are facing him, go wide.

For a moment, it’s only that: Tony presses up to Steve, his breath hot in Steve’s face, before he’s crumpling downwards.

He folds across the courthouse steps. The are two impacts of bullets, one to his neck, one to his chest, blood blooming. His eyes are still cracked open along with his mouth.

Steve is numbly aware of his knees hitting the steps. Aware of yelling over his back for someone to cut his hands free, and after a few people hanging back, someone lurches forwards. Then there’s a blade, something thin and steely, slicing the chains so they clatter to the concrete. His wrists are bruised, but Steve hardly notices; they’ll be gone in a minute.

With his hands free, they come up to haul Tony into his lap. He’s done this before, too many times, held a comrade as they bled out. He once held a man with his arm blown off, whimpering and crying out and pushing his face into the crook of Steve’s arm. He’s seen a lot of things- limbs missing like lost teeth; he’s seen how men can survive these things, so many of these impossible things.

Tony’s eyes are starting to drift shut, and Steve isn’t having any of it. “Eyes open, Avenger,” he orders, and keeps his voice steady by power of will. He’s done this before. He can do it again.

Tony’s eyelids flutter, then settle. Open, thank god. “Don’t think I’m that,” he says, and then coughs, coughs again and it’s red across his chin, “anymore.”

“You are,” Steve says, doesn’t believe it even as it comes out of his mouth, because this is Tony, and the past few months have been pure hell on all of them and has all but torn their friendship down entirely. “You are, Shellhead, always have been, can’t have one of the founders giving up, now, can we?”

He looks down at the bullet holes, stares at them for a few seconds before he realizes what’s wrong. They should be knitting shut, skin healing easily over them- are the bullets scientifically altered? Did they engineer them so Extremis couldn’t rewrite the skin over them?

“Tony, I think they did something to the bullets, can you fix it?”

“Normal bullets, Cap.”

Steve says, “What,” even though he knows, god, he knows it before that awful, wrecked smile makes its way onto Tony’s mouth.

“They’re not,” Tony says, and can’t finish, has to stop to cough up enough blood to coat his chin and then slop down his jaw, down his neck and onto Steve’s pants.

Steve, against his better judgement, shakes him. Just slightly, just enough to keep him awake, because Tony is looking paler by the second. “Don’t give up now, Avenger,” he tells him, and it sounds more like a plea. “Tony, what do you mean they’re normal bullets? Why isn’t Extremis-”

“’M making it not fix me,” Tony mumbles. His eyes keep making movements like they want to roll upwards into his head. He chokes, spits up blood before he can continue. “Not- not making it out of this one, Cap. Saved you. ‘S done. ‘M done.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you say that, Avenger.”

“’M not a-”

“You are,” Steve snaps. “You are, you have been, you will always be, no matter what anybody says.”

“You wouldn’t. Didn’t. Say I was,” Tony says, chokes again, swallows, chokes. “Didn’t blame you, though. Think I stopped being an Avenger a while ago. Don’t blame you.”

He bucks in Steve’s arms, weakly, like his body is shutting down, and it is, Steve is watching Tony’s body shut down as Tony does nothing to stop it. And he could, Steve’s seen Tony fix his own gaping wounds for years easy as blinking, and maybe he’s a little tired afterwards but that’s it, that’s _it_ , and now he’s lying here and telling Steve he’s done, and not even an hour ago Steve wouldn’t have minded if Tony _was_ dead.

And wouldn’t he have done it, all those months ago? Tony had been helpless in front of him, said, _do it, Steve._

The only reason Steve hadn’t brought the shield down and broken his former best friend’s goddamn neck was because he had used his name. He would have, he has no doubts about that; would have done it and hated himself for it later, but it was for the better good, which Steve had given himself over for time and time again.

What’s another dead best friend, after all? One life against many million, and Tony’s put himself on the line, risked his life over and over while Steve watched, they’ve fought and yelled and sparred and had play-fights over the remote, and a few months ago Steve had been _so ready_ to kill him, and Tony would’ve done the same to him, Tony would’ve- Tony would’ve-

“Wasn’t,” Tony slurs. He has to push congealed blood out of the way with his tongue. His teeth are stained with it. “Wasn’t- worth it,” he chokes out, and Steve doesn’t know what he’s talking about until it clicks into place-

 _Was it worth it,_ Steve had screamed at him, blind with rage at the blank, emotionless Iron Man mask, and Tony hadn’t responded until now.

Tony goes slack him his arms, head lolling sideways, and Steve shakes him and shakes him and shakes him.

“Open your eyes, Avenger,” he orders, begs, pleads. “Open your eyes, Shellhead. Open your eyes. Tony, _please_ , open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your-”

 

 

 

In another world, Tony turns on the news, doesn’t fully absorb the title until he reads it over for the third time, sure it must be a mistake. When it hits, he nods to himself. _This was to be expected_ , he thinks. _You knew it was a possibility. Of course someone would take advantage of marching Steve to the courthouse; perfect place to kill him and make a statement._

He absolves this in hard logic, flicks through several news channels, all of which are showing the same story. He nods. Gets stuck in it, doesn’t realize he’s stopped nodding until the remote cracks in his hand. He looks down. It’s cracked down the middle, shards of plastic falling to the floor.

He doesn’t notice he’s started shaking until he drops the remote. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until his next breath comes in a sob. He doesn’t notice his knees have hit the floor until he’s fully hunched over, hands buried in his hair, yanking at it, stuck stiff with the image of Steve dying alone on the steps.

He sobs. He sounds like a dying animal.

When he finally manages to stand, he takes a shower. He puts on a suit, and then the Iron Man suit over that. He flies to SHIELD, walks in and asks to see Steve’s body.

No-one looks him in the eye, even the ones who glare.

Tony puts the Iron Man mask on his lap, taking in Steve’s body laid out on the slab, his shield placed artfully over his torso. Everything is bloody.

When he tells him it wasn’t worth it, it’s quiet and small and worthless, and doesn’t change a goddamn thing.

He gets up, leaves, jams the mask over his face, flies until he feels like throwing up, goes home and watches the news footage of the video until it’s imprinted in the back of his mind. Goes to bed and dreams about it. Wakes up and takes half an hour to convince himself to actually get out of bed and not pitch himself out of the thirty-third story window without the suit.

Whatever. Extremis would fix him anyway.

He gets up, washes his face, turns on the news.

 

 

 

More often than not, they don’t get together. They love each other, yes, and sometimes they even realize that they are _in_ love, but since nine times out of ten they’re both the same gender, they don’t get around to admitting it.

There are worlds where they get married to each other, where they have kids, via magic or not. Worlds where they grow old together, worlds where they get divorced and get married to different people just to divorce them and fall in with each other again. It’s a vicious cycle.

Most of the time, they’re not each other’s only love. Sometimes not even their last. There’s Pepper, even if in quite a few worlds she and Tony never get past friends, and then there are the ones where Tony marries her and is Steve’s best friend for the rest of their lives, even if Tony never fully recognizes the ache in his chest.

There’s Peggy, who marries Steve in at least eight worlds and has kids with him in more than that. She dies in almost every single one- Steve’s famous Nearly Woman. In the worlds where she stays alive, she marries Steve or Natasha or never ends up getting married at all, opting to stay single and focus on her work instead. She always wears her lipstick red and dark, and sometimes ends up having no-strings-attached sex with Natasha for a couple of months before they break it off and become friends instead.

There’s Sharon, there’s Rumiko, there’s Bucky, there are countless others. But always Steve and Tony, in various forms, and always some kind of love.

In one world, this very second, Steve is running a hand through Tony’s hair, lightly, and wishing for charcoal so he could sketch the laugh lines at the edges of Tony’s eyes, even though Tony never believes him when Steve tells him he thinks they’re beautiful. It’s the morning after they’ve just made love for the first time, and Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s shoulder, then his neck, and then his mouth, which is smiling, waking up slowly.

There is a world where they are falling in love on a dancefloor. Their hands are equally damp and they’re both embarrassed by it. Tony is teasing him about how Steve has two left feet.

There’s a world where they’re meeting eyes for the first time across a club. The music is loud and annoying and they barely notice each other due to a short attention span, which is down to drunkenness. They’ll meet again after many months, when their friends set them up on a blind date. They’ll think the other one is familiar, and even after sixty years of marriage they can’t for the life of them remember where they had seen each other before meeting on the blind date.

They meet in a crowded bar. They meet in a classroom, and seconds later, Steve trips and takes three desks with him before he hits the floor. They meet at their lockers, stuck next to each other for the next year. They meet when Steve serves Tony his coffee. They meet when Tony vomits in Steve’s garden. They meet by chance, knocking into each other in the middle of the street; Tony spills coffee down his front and offers to make it up to him.

Worlds, thousands upon thousands of them: always Steve, always Tony.

 _You two, god, I don’t know what it is about you, you’ve never managed to just be_ ordinary _-_

 

 

 

                                     Eyes   open, Shellhe ad.

 

                        Eyes op en. Please, ope   n your   ey   es.                         S   te-

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes open, Avenger.

 

 

 

It’s dark, and Verda says, rushed, “You’ll be topside in about a minute, just lie there for a bit. Fuck, I am in so much trouble, you guys better not fuck this up after I showed you all that shit.”

Tony thinks there’s a pair of lips ghosting over his forehead, feather-light, but he might just be delirious. He lets the darkness take him again, but not before he turns his head blindly towards Steve. He can’t see anything, but somehow it makes him feel better.

There’s a flash of something, and for a second Tony thinks he sees a snatch of red string stretching between the two of them, endless between their fingers.

 

 

 

Broken headlights. Lanterns on strings. Streetlamps that flicker when they stand underneath them. Lamps that Tony moans to turn off, flapping a hand at them. Arc-reactor blue, filtering through his shirt. Light through the curtains, spilling over their naked backs first thing in the morning.

Light and then the lack of it, bullets ripping through every inch of them and then not, kisses being pressed everywhere and then empty air, and then light, and light, and light.

Eyes open, Avenger.

Eyes-

 

 

 

Tony opens his eyes, blinking out the light that is near blinding in his face, raising a hand to shield it as he sits up, swinging his legs over the bed. “Fuck,” he says. “Get that thing out of my-” he stops. Remembers everything in a colossal gut-punch.

He sags, and Bruce’s hand is on his arm, concerned.

Bruce says his name. Tony tells him he’s fine, he swears to god, and only wobbles slightly when he stands up.

“Steve,” he calls, and they’re in Medical, of course they are, fucking Medical-

He hears, “Tony,” like a dam breaking, and turns to see Steve, breathing just as hard.

Every other Steve and every other Tony be damned, because this is his, and this is theirs, and they meet in the middle in a kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Verda, i.e. Verdandi, one of the Norse norns, is my OC from 'But Loving Him Is Red.' I like to think she got fed up with Steve and Tony being morons and decided to work a little magic with one of the worlds destined to have a Civil War. She stopped it, if you were worried.
> 
> The mention of red string near the end of the fic is a reference to 'But Loving Him Is Red,' where they are tied together with the red string of fate.
> 
> The bit where they have a daughter is also in my other fic, 'just as smart, twice as stubborn,' which is in this 'verse.


End file.
